Tag Archives: inspiration

As I mentioned in my News page, Gypsy Shadow Publishing has accepted my story, “The Cometeers” which will be published as part of the What Man Hath Wrought series. The intended launch date is in early September.

Here’s the marvelous cover, designed by Charlotte Holley. Yes, that’s a planet-destroying comet headed right toward the Earth. But if you look closer, you’ll see an silvery man-made projectile on an intercept course. Just possibly, its occupants might save the entire world.

Inquiries have been streaming in from every corner of the planet (and from some of the comets), asking what this story is about. Far be it from me to deny my fans information about my latest tale.

Here’s the book blurb: A huge comet speeds toward a devastating collision with the Earth, but no one will launch space shuttles filled with nuclear weapons. It’s 1897. Instead they’ll fire projectiles from the Jules Verne cannon and try to deflect the comet with a gunpowder explosion. Commander Hanno Knighthead isn’t sure he can motivate his argumentative, multinational crew of geniuses to work together. It turns out one of them is a saboteur. Then things get worse. Only a truly extraordinary leader could get this group to cooperate, thwart the saboteur, and jury-rig a way to divert the comet. Lucky thing Hanno brought his chewing gum.

If you recall the 1998 movie “Armageddon,” then you can think of my story as Steampunk Armageddon.

I don’t recall the exact inspiration for this story. As stated in this post, and this one, I use the “seed and twist” method of coming up with story ideas. In this case the seed is the standard save-Earth-from-destruction idea, and the twist is to set the action in Victorian times.

My problem became one of technology. They just didn’t have sufficient know-how in the Nineteenth Century to divert or destroy a comet. It’s an open question whether we really have the technology today.

Therefore, I assumed the world of Jules Verne’s novel From the Earth to the Moon. In that world, men had already achieved space travel in 1867. With funds from many nations, the Baltimore Gun Club had built a 900 foot long cannon outside Tampa, Florida, and launched a projectile containing three men.

My story is set thirty years later and no one has used the cannon since, due to the enormous expense. With a giant comet on the way, however, something must be done, so every country contributes what it can.

You can’t simply launch projectiles full of gunpowder at the comet and expect to hit it. The target is too small, the distance too great, and the calculations too imprecise. You must send men up also, in separate projectiles, to travel with your gunpowder bombs to make the necessary course corrections along the way.

That plan should work.

Unless something goes wrong.

“The Cometeers” will launch in September. For further updates, keep visiting this blog and reading the posts by—

As the launch date for “To Be First” and “Wheels of Heaven” nears (this Tuesday, July 1st), and excitement builds, I think it’s time for me to reveal the story behind “To Be First.”

A few years ago, I watched an episode of the TV show Mythbusters where they replicated a feat supposedly performed by Lagâri Hasan Çelebi in the Ottoman Empire in 1633. Çelebi is said to have constructed a rocket chair, launched himself into the air, and flown down safely using a wing-like apparatus. The event was intended to commemorate and honor the birth of the Sultan’s daughter.

The Mythbusters team considered the myth busted, but it got me to thinking. What if such a marvelous flight had taken place? What if the Sultan had understood the geopolitical and military implications?

Think of it. Manned rocket flight in the 17th Century. Defensive city walls and high castle walls would mean nothing to a country with armed rocket-men. Rather than expanding and then beginning its slow decline to finally die with the end of World War I, the Ottoman Empire might have spread much more quickly and farther.

Had the Ottomans also embraced the science behind rocketry, they might have hastened other technical achievements, and been the source of those advancements rather than watching America and the rest of Europe prosper.

It seemed like an interesting basis for an alternate history tale, so I wrote one. In my version, it’s 1933, three centuries after Çelebi’s flight, and two Ottoman astronauts (called lunanauts) are returning from the first manned flight to the Moon. Yes, I said 1933, not 1969.

I imagined their space capsule being about the same size as the Apollo capsule, but dome-shaped with a central spike like the roof of an Ottoman mosque. The capsule would have a couple of windows and there would be some of that beautiful, flowing Ottoman Turkish writing on the outside.

As the story commences, the lunanauts encounter a strange ionic storm in space, and their capsule passes into an alternate universe. The tale takes off from there.

My central characters, Yazid and Kemal, hold differing views on what it means to be an explorer. What are the motivations behind those who roam beyond all prior journeys, who probe far into unknown regions? Do they do it for the money? For fame? For love? Or is it something simpler?

If you read my story, perhaps you’ll be motivated to become an explorer, and you’ll write your own gripping story of heroic and fantastic adventure. You, too, can manage ‘To Be First.’ At least, so says—

I just had to write to thank you, thank you, for the great times, the pleasures of reading your work. There’s no sense letting a little thing like your death in 2012 prevent me from expressing my gratitude, is there?

At one point, you declared you wrote fantasy, not science fiction. In my view you blended the two. You made science sound like fantasy.

Moreover, your flowing style of writing contrasted with that of the hard-science fiction writers. Their stories conveyed a love of machines, of science. Yours proclaimed a love of word imagery, of the magic of English, of poetic prose.

The authors of hard science fiction told me tales of technical detail. You sang me stories of marvel and wonder.

I guess I’m trying to say that I write more like those other guys, but wish I could write like you.

On occasion, you related a particular memory from when you were about twelve. At a carnival, one of the performers known as Mr. Electrico touched an electrical sword to your nose which made your hair stand out. You claimed he told you, “Live forever!”

I recall purchasing your book 2001: A Space Odyssey (or maybe my dad bought it) just two weeks before the movie was due in the theaters of my childhood town for the first time. I was about ten years old, and determined to finish the book before seeing the movie. Finish it I did, and I enjoyed the book much more than the film.

At that time, the year 2001 seemed a long way off, and fantastic things would happen by then. To a boy growing up starry-eyed in the Sixties, the future appeared extraordinary. Your books helped me see it that way. More than most authors, you conveyed the pure wonder of a scientific future.

That’s what comes through for me in your tales, the positive vision of science as a way to solve man’s problems, and to explore. You even believed science could solve political problems. In The Songs of Distant Earth, you depict human societies living under a utopian “Jefferson Mark 3 Constitution,” suggesting a political evolution toward better government. In Rama Revealed, you show an alien race with enormous military power but a staunch unwillingness to enter into conflict. The reason becomes clear when one of the aliens says their politicians can declare war, but anyone voting for war is put to death. Strong disincentive, indeed!

Another thing I learned from reading your work is that aliens might not be bent on invading. When many other authors wrote of aliens attacking Earth, you wrote about creatures who either helped mankind (Childhood’s End), led mankind on series of strange advancing paths (the Odyssey books), or completely ignored us (the Rama series).

It’s possible that your novel The Deep Range influenced me, in some subtle way, to serve in the submarine force. That story took the Old West struggles between cattle ranchers and crop farmers and set it under the sea, where whale herding competed with plankton farming. Science fiction stories with an oceanic setting are rare gems, for me.

A reviewer of my stories would be hard-pressed to find your influence on my writing. However, your fiction has been described as technical and the style as somewhat dry at times. As a trained engineer, I strive to include sufficient technical detail so that people can understand how my gadgets work. My fellow critique group members say the details sometimes get in the way of the story-telling.

Like you, I’m enamored of the science. I love it, and can’t help including a sense of awe and wonder in my tales. There will be those who grasp that, and those who skip those paragraphs and feel unfulfilled by the rest of the story.

That said, thank you so much, Sir Arthur, for passing the wonder to me. In 2010: Odyssey Two, Heywood Floyd asks, “What’s going to happen?” Dave Bowman answers, “Something wonderful.” That says it all, or so it seems to—

You may have some difficulty reading this, since you’ve been dead for over 21 years, but I hope somehow this tribute finds its way to you nonetheless. I just wanted to say thanks, however belatedly, for your books and the way they influenced me.

In fact, I read more stories written by you than by any other author. (Of course, there are more stories written by you than any other SF author!)

In the late 1980s or very early 1990s I had the opportunity to attend one of your speeches—a great thrill for me since I was then thinking of becoming a writer. You had traveled (by train, of course, since you never flew) to my area to speak in a lecture hall.

Alone on stage, you began speaking in your thick Brooklyn accent. “I’ve done a number of these things already, so to save time, I’ll ask the questions you would ask, and then answer them. First question: Dr. Asimov, how did you come to write so many books? Well, I type ninety words a minute and before I knew it, I’d written five hundred books. If someone wants a 5000 word short story, I type 5000 words and stop; with any luck, I’m at the end of a sentence.”

You gave advice to budding writers like me that day also. “My first draft is my final draft. I don’t believe in rubbing words together until they sparkle in the sunlight. As my good friend, the late Bob Heinlein said, ‘They didn’t want it good; they wanted it Wednesday.’”

It was a great hour-long lecture, and you kept the audience laughing the whole time. But that was just one hour. Your impact on my life goes much deeper.

Your SF stories are based on sound science, and your characters confront bedeviling problems that spring from unalterable facts. The science is a central part of each story. I’ve strived for that in my stories as well.

Moreover, your tales are celebrations of science. I don’t recall any stories where science leads humanity irrevocably astray. Even your dystopian works end with hope for the future. That’s true of my writing, too.

Others have spoken of your clear, uncluttered style of writing, and you’ve acknowledged that yourself. My critique group tells me my style is similar at times.

Looking back over the list of my published short stories, I think I can see your influence in each one, to some extent. Alas, I don’t type ninety words a minute, and I labor over several drafts, so I will never equal the quantity of your output. But it’s my dream to write a story someday that approaches the quality of your fiction.

As a writer, where do you get your inspiration? To what or whom do you appeal for the creativity you need?

I have a strange confession to make. Every weekday, I happen to walk by a statue. Rather than just glance at it, I make a silent wish that the spirit of the man represented will imbue me with the creativity and talent I need for whatever story I’m working on at the time.

Silly? Perhaps. But you have to admit there’s something about statues. At the U.S. Naval Academy, there’s a statue representing the figurehead of the old USS Delaware, a chief of the Delaware tribe the midshipmen call “Tecumseh.” The midshipman toss pennies at the statue as a wish for good luck in upcoming examinations.

But the statue I pass by twice daily is different. It’s a representation of the American composer, the director of the Marine Corps Band, the ‘March King,’ John Philip Sousa. The statue’s pedestal bears the only word necessary, “Sousa,” though in my ritual, I call it J.P. The sculptor captured him in the act of directing, left hand pointing to a section of the band, right hand gripping the raised baton, head tilted as he enjoys the music.

How, you’re asking yourself, can a writer draw inspiration from a statue of a music composer? For one thing, there are no statues of writers along the path I walk. Secondly, composing music has much in common with writing. Music, they say, is the language of the soul. Both require creativity and both demand years for the talent to develop.

I’ve bloggedbeforeabout the benefit of tangible symbols to use for motivation. If you can come to see the symbol as urging you towards betterment, prodding you to sit in the chair and write, exhorting you to be as good at writing fiction as you can be, then it will always be there for you, a steady and unchanging inspiration.

Do you have a statue or other symbol you use for motivation? Let me know. Do you think the whole idea is crazy, that it’s the height of foolishness to assume a statue has the power to grant fiction-writing prowess if one only pleads to it? Leave me a comment. In the meantime, many thanks to J.P. for being a great inspiration to—

Have you created a bucket list, and decided you’d like to write a novel before you kick the bucket? Before you commit to that, we need to talk.

First, although I don’t have a bucket list myself, I like the concept. What a great way to take charge of the rest of your life, to seize the remaining days and bend them to your will, to enjoy the wonders of being alive in this world at this time.

I think your attitude toward your list is important, though. You shouldn’t consider your life a failure if you don’t cross off every item. As Robert Browning said, your reach should exceed your grasp.

Most bucket lists contain items that can be thought of as events, or one-time experiences. In the 2007 movie, “The Bucket List,” the characters’ list items included going skydiving, flying over the North Pole, visiting the Taj Mahal, going on an African safari, and visiting Mount Everest. Those types of list items are fine; it’s a good idea to experience what our world has to offer.

However, writing a novel isn’t like that at all. It’s been said that writing a novel is a one-day event. As in, “one day, I’ll write a novel.” Unless you sign up for something like Nanowrimo or the 3-day novel contest, writing a novel normally takes many months.

Further, there’s a significant difference between listing ‘write a novel’ and ‘get a novel published.’ Attaining publication is much harder than just writing a novel for your own enjoyment.

True, there’s a great feeling of accomplishment in writing “The End” after your novel’s first draft, and I imagine an ecstatic feeling at seeing your own novel in print, but both of those feelings are preceded by many long, solitary hours/days/weeks/months of writing. Just in case you didn’t know that.

In short, writing a novel is probably unlike other items on your bucket list. It’s less like ‘visit the Grand Canyon’ or ‘see a show on Broadway’ and more like ‘learn dentistry’ or ‘become a rock star.’ In other words, be prepared for a major time-suck.

So, you understand all that but have decided to keep ‘write a novel’ on your bucket list anyway? You’re that determined? Great! I say, go for it. I wish you luck. Remember, if you are able to get your novel published, that work of creativity will survive your own death. If it’s good enough, it could even become a classic and live on forever. Even the work of a sculptor doesn’t survive as long, for stone eventually wears away, but the words of a book can be reprinted endlessly.

If you’ve made a bucket list, I’d love to hear about it, whether or not writing a novel made your list. Let me know by leaving a comment. Be assured that ‘one day,’ a novel will be written by—

Years ago, while reading Zen in the Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury, I was struck by a memorable passage. He’d titled the fourth chapter “Drunk and in Charge of a Bicycle.”

After stating that he’d read how other authors found writing a difficult chore, Mr. Bradbury wrote:

But, you see, my stories have led me through my life. They shout, I follow. They run up and bite me on the leg—I respond by writing down everything that goes on during the bite. When I finish, the idea lets go, and runs off.

That is the kind of life I’ve had. Drunk, and in charge of a bicycle, as an Irish police report once put it. Drunk with life, that is, and not knowing where off to next. But you’re on your way before dawn. And the trip? Exactly one half terror, exactly one half exhilaration.

Always fun to read Bradbury; even his nonfiction hums with an electric rhythm. But today I thought I’d examine his metaphor a bit, since it has stayed in my mind for at least a decade.

I understand why it appealed to Bradbury. First, the phrasing is a bit odd to American ears, and he often sought interesting new ways to express ideas. Second, I’m sure he had a distinct mental image of what it would be like to be drunk and in charge of a bicycle. That idea of going somewhere but not knowing where; the wobbly, weaving way you’d be ever on the edge of falling. Bradbury saw that as being akin to his writing experiences.

Third, I’m sure he enjoyed the concealed contradiction, the playful paradox, inherent in the words “drunk, and in charge.” There’s no doubt the bicycle rider is going where the bike goes. If arrested, there’s no doubt whom the police would hold responsible. But who, after all, is really in charge? If you’re drunk, as Bradbury says, with life, then you’re in the grip of events beyond your “charge” and it’s your stories that are leading you.

That muse of yours, then, is the one in charge. You follow where she beckons even when that way seems outlandish or bizarre, because she’s never steered you wrong before. You’ve no idea where you’ll end up, and the notion of ceding control leaves you with that mix of half terror, half exhilaration.

But when you submit your story before the squinty eyes of the editor, when it’s picked over by readers and critics, where is the responsibility then? It’s only your name on the story; the muse has vanished, gone on to her other affairs. Like the drunk bicyclist trying to explain himself to the constable, you can’t point the finger elsewhere.

When I set out to write about this topic today, my aim was to poke holes in the Bradbury’s metaphor, to state that my writing experiences weren’t like that at all. Especially the half terror part. I was going to create my own metaphor for my writing life. I wanted to capture the godlike act of creating a world, of designing the initial conditions, then winding up the characters and letting them go, interacting and confronting their problems. All the while, that godlike me would be taking notes, watching these wind-up characters’ every move. If I did my creative job well, readers would enjoy the result. If not, well, back to the drawing board to create another world peopled with other wind-up dolls.

But instead of condemning Bradbury’s metaphor, I’ve praised it. From his grave, he laughs at the irony of it. I thought I was in charge of this blog, thought I had it all planned out. Now I see I’ve been drunk and in charge of a bicycle, in the grip of other forces. Yet the one person responsible, the name at the end is—

True, Leonardo da Vinci was an anatomist, architect, botanist, cartographer, engineer, geologist, inventor, mathematician, musician, painter, scientist, and sculptor. Arguably he was the greatest genius of all time. But…he never wrote fiction.

Still, it may be possible to adapt da Vinci’s methods to the task of writing great fiction. “But wait, Mr. Poseidon’s Scribe,” (I hear you objecting), “Leonardo was a genius. I wasn’t born a genius.”

It’s been argued before that genius is some combination of luck and time spent at an activity. You can’t do much about the luck, but you can spend time learning, practicing, honing your skills. If you’re going to spend that time, why not ask how Leonardo spent his time?

In his book How to Think Like Leonardo da Vinci, Michael J. Gelb has already researched the methods Leonardo used and distilled them into principles. You need to get this book and read it to understand the seven principles. As you read the book, you’ll be able to extrapolate how each one applies to writing fiction. Here are those seven principles:

Curiosità: An insatiably curious approach to life and an unrelenting quest for continuous learning

Dimonstrazione: A commitment to test knowledge through experience, persistence, and a willingness to learn from mistakes

Sensazione: The continual refinement of the senses, especially sight, as the means to enliven experience

Sfumato: A willingness to embrace ambiguity, paradox, and uncertainty

Arte/Scienza: The development of the balance between science and art, logic and imagination; “whole-brain” thinking.

Corporalita: The cultivation of grace, ambidexterity, fitness, and poise.

Connessione: A recognition of, and appreciation for, the interconnectedness of all things and phenomena; systems thinking

Just reading through the list should remind you of what you know about da Vinci. Leonardo never wrote down these principles himself; he was far too disorganized for that, though he intended to get around to it someday. Michael Gelb developed the principles from what is known of da Vinci’s life.

Even the bare descriptions of each principle should suggest to you how each one applies to writing fiction. Maybe you’re scratching your head at the Corporalita principle, wondering how that one relates to a sedentary activity like writing. It does, trust me. I will devote seven future blog posts to a discussion of each principle, and how you can use each one to improve your fiction writing.

At this point, I can’t resist a personal plug. Leonardo da Vinci is such a fascinating historical figure, I wrote a story about the mechanical automata lion he constructed for the King of France. Had that been all da Vinci did, it would have been achievement enough, far beyond the norm of the day, but it’s barely a footnote in any list of his accomplishments. My story, “Leonardo’s Lion,” deals with the question of what eventually happened to that clockwork marvel.

Right after you buy my book, buy How to Think Like Leonardo da Vinci, and get started writing with the skill of your inner genius. When you become famous and people ask how you learned to write so well, be sure to tell them it was all due to a blog post written by—

Many thanks to Charlotte Holley who tagged me to participate in The Next Big Thing blog hop. I didn’t know what a blog hop was but it seems like fun. In this one, authors answer questions about their Work in Progress (WIP) and people can follow the links along and see what various writers are working on. That way readers can anticipate and check back later to buy the books they’re interested in. It’s possible that one or more authors in this chain may really be working on The Next Big Thing!

When you’re tagged for this particular blog hop, you post your answers the following Wednesday and tag five other authors for the following Wednesday. Here are my answers:

1. What is the working title of your book? “A Tale More True”

2. Where did the idea come from for the book? If I recall correctly, I was thinking about fanciful trips to the Moon in early literature. I’m a fan of Jules Verne, but he’s actually a latecomer to that topic. While researching, I came across references to Baron Münchhausen. My story then sort of sprang into my head.

3. What genre does your book fall under? It’s alternate history, in the subgenre of clockpunk. I’ve not written much clockpunk, my story “Leonardo’s Lion” being the exception.

4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition? There are three characters of interest. The protagonist is Count Eusebius Horst Siegwart von Federmann. Count Federmann could be played well by actor Chris Hemsworth. He’d have to speak English with a German accent, but doesn’t have to do it well, since it’s a comedy. Count Federmann is a brooding character, angry at and jealous of Baron Münchhausen. The Count is intelligent, determined, and optimistic, but lacks sense.

The Count has a young French servant named Fidèle, and I’ll select Shia LaBeouf for that role. Mr. LaBeouf would have to speak English with a French accent, but not an especially good one. Fidèle is full of life, but has the sense to fear danger, though he’s always respectful of nobility.

The character Baron Hieronymus Carl Friedrich von Münchhausen only appears briefly at the beginning and end of the story. Since it’s a cameo role, I’ll splurge and pick Robin Williams. I need an older character of plain appearance who’s able to speak English with a German accent and captivate an audience with his words alone. Robin Williams played the part of the King of the Moon in the 1988 Movie “The Adventures of Baron Munchhausen.”

5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book? A man is so angry about the self-aggrandizing lies of Baron Münchhausen that, just to prove the Baron wrong, he constructs a gigantic metal spring and launches himself to the Moon, where he learns about the nature of Truth.

7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript? I’m not done with the fist draft yet. I researched, planned, and outlined the story for about a month. First and second drafts will take another month.

8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre? It’s a light-hearted clockpunk tale, so there aren’t many comparable stories. Perhaps the closest thing is that movie, “The Adventures of Baron Munchhausen.”

9. Who or What inspired you to write this book? The muse speaks. I listen and write it all down as fast as I can.

10. What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest? Come on—intense jealousy, a space voyage in 1769, and weird Moon creatures. What more do you want?

At this point I should mention which authors I’m tagging next in this blog hop, but I was unsuccessful in getting any to participate. I think the hop has been going for about thirty weeks now, with most authors tagging five others. If you do the math for such a chain, you’ll see how, theoretically, we’d pass the population of the earth in Week 15, and by Week 30 there would be over 2 with 20 zeroes participants.

There only seems to be that many budding authors in the world. So much for theory. As Yogi Berra said, “In theory there is no difference between theory and practice. In practice there is.”

So I won’t be tagging anyone else. This strand of the chain ends here, with my alter ego, a guy I like to call—